Chapter 3
Archer
Once Archer reached the gates to his ancestral home, he put the dog down on the ground. The puppy whined and sniffed his leg, looking up with doe eyes.
“Listen, you don’t belong to me. Go find your owner,” Archer said to the dog.
A sharp bark told him the dog was saying no. In his heart, Archer knew the puppy owner had abandoned the dog.
“Fine, but if I walk in to see my aunt with a dog in my arms, it will not go in my favour.”
Archer pushed open the side gate and trudged along the pathway to the main house. The dog trotted next to him, sniffing at anything that took his interest. The Georgian Palladian building and the rest of the properties stood on flat land at the top of the cliff. The Turners had lived there for four hundred years. Not that he or his siblings saw a penny of the wealth. With the tradition of the head of the family holding the purse strings, everyone else needed to earn a living to survive.
His aunt was currently the matriarch living up to the premise. You were warm and fed if you stayed under a Turner roof, but no money was handed out. When Aunt Cynthia passed away, the purse would be handed to Archer. Something he didn’t want until recently.
He took a deep breath as he approached the shallow, broad steps leading up to the stone pillars in front of the entrance. The dog was in his arms, burrowed deep against his chest like he knew to brace for battle.
In true fashion, the door opened before knocking.
“Mr Archer, it is good to see you back, sir,” Bailey said, greeting him warmly.
“Thanks, Bailey. Do you think you can give this puppy water and something to eat? I have no idea what puppies eat.”
“You had a puppy on an oil rig, sir?”
“No. I found him trying to run from the sea. Somebody had dumped him in a sack.”
“That’s awful. I’ll take care of him,” Bailey said, taking the bundle of puppy from Archer. “Does he have a name?”
“No collar, Bailey. I’ll come down once I’ve seen the matriarch.”
“Very good, Sir. Miss Turner is in the morning room.”
Archer nodded to the footman and left his duffel bag with Bailey and the dog. He strode away through the grand foyer with its ornate marble and sweeping staircase and into the morning room. It still had the same red carpet and aged chairs and sofas. He was sure they were well over a hundred years old. Not that anyone was allowed to sit on them for very long.
He spotted his aunt sitting near the fireplace, wringing her hands as she leaned into the warmth. She wore a bottle-green jumper with a roll collar. Her hair was up in a low bun, her once all-black hair streaked with white. He couldn’t see what else she wore with the thick blanket over her knees. If she wanted to portray a frail little old lady, she had.
“Hello, Aunt,” Archer said once he was a few feet away.
“You’re late,” she answered in her clipped upper-class accent. It was cold, harsh, like a verbal whipping.
“I had to rescue a dog who was drowning.”
“Is that why you’re traipsing your sodden shoes through the house?”
“I didn’t think you’d appreciate bare feet on the ancient carpet.”
She gave him a critical glance from head to toe, taking in his suit. It fit him perfectly—dark blue with a matching tie and crisp white shirt.
“Shall I call down for tea?” Archer asked after a too-long stretch of silence.
“Will you be here that long?”
Sighing heavily, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat on the sofa opposite his aunt. She’d aged significantly since he’d last seen her at his grandfather’s funeral. His aunt hadn’t shed a tear at her father’s funeral and left the gravesite when the coffin was lowered. She refused to put on a wake afterwards.
“So you know why I’m here?”
“Not a clue. Your letter said you wanted to talk to me, but it lacked details.”
“I want us to have a piece of our inheritance early,” Archer said.
“Us? ”
“Me, Jason, Luke, and Daisy. If dad were alive, he would hand it over.”
“Well, he’s not alive. I am.”
“I can’t imagine you enjoying running an exclusive hotel and cottages at seventy-nine.”
“I don’t run anything. That’s what managers are for. And I’ll thank you, not to mention my age again.”
“Are you telling me no?”
Silence emanated from his aunt. He could almost hear the cogs whirring in her head. That was enough pause for him to know she didn’t care much about overseeing the family business.
Edward Hall was a smaller version of the house they were sitting in was half a mile away. It was a mini palace that entertained the minor royalty, celebrities, and the very rich who wanted an exclusive wedding. The hotel was a place to stay for the exclusive guest who could relax without having the press turn up. Five cottages, half a mile away from Edward Hall, the other side from Turner Hall, were let out long term for those who wanted to hide away from some crisis. It was his grandfather who had turned the second house into a business. He was fed up with his friends turning up and spending weeks eating his food and drinking his whisky. His grandfather called the second house Edward Hall after his father.
“I’ll give you my answer in the morning. You may go,” his aunt said and then rang the tiny bell next to her.
He took one look at her pinched lips and stood up.
“What time should I call tomorrow?” Archer asked, buttoning his suit jacket.
“Not a minute before ten-thirty,” she answered.
Archer nodded and gazed at the painting of his grandfather, Archibald Turner, before he strode from the room. His aunt adored her father right up to the day she didn’t. No one would talk about why they fell out, and now Aunt Cynthia was the only person alive who could reveal the secrets. Jennifer, her dress maid, could, Archer thought, but she was loyal to her mistress.